How can I tell you?
by Rosyposypie
Summary: This is set between Danny’s appearance in Season Four, and his reappearance in Season 7. His absence is pretty much unexplained, and I thought I’d improvise. Disclaimer:I don't own the characters or the song. They belong to Aaron Sorkin and Cat Stevens.


_How can I tell you that I love you, I love you  
but I can't think of the right words to say  
I long to tell you that I'm always thinking of you  
I'm always thinking of you, but my words  
just blow away, just blow away_

CJ was tired. She found that in the all too frequent occasions she was working in her office, late at night, that her mind was wondering. Wondering to a particular reporter. A particular reporter who was conspicuously absent from the Press Room these nights. She missed him. She'd been so pleased when he'd appeared, in that ridiculous Santa suit. The memory made her smile to herself. How could she forget that kiss? The mischievous smile beneath the beard. He'd gone abroad shortly after Zoey Bartlett's kidnap, and it didn't look as if he'd be returning any time soon. Africa, CJ mused. She was sure it was Africa. She was sure it was far away. And she was sure she wished it wasn't.

_  
It always ends up to one thing, honey  
and I can't think of the right words to say  
Wherever I am girl, I'm always walking with you  
I'm always walking with you, but I look and you're not there_

It was dark outside but the heat hadn't subsided. The room hummed with the sound of the fan whirring above his head, with the sound of insects chirruping outside the window. Danny mopped his forehead, and focused on his laptop. He'd nearly nailed this article, but his mind was drifting. Back to DC. Back to CJ. He wrote to her most weeks. Just a few lines by email, usually. Occasionally a phone call. They exchanged friendly banter, where she teased him for wasting calls from another continent, and he told her tales of his adventures, and didn't tell her that he only rang to hear her voice and she could have read recipe books to him for all he cared. As long as it was her.

_  
Whoever I'm with, I'm always, always talking to you  
I'm always talking to you, and I'm sad that  
you can't hear, sad that you can't hear  
It always ends up to one thing, honey,  
when I look and you're not there_

Danny wrote lengthy journal entries during his travels. He idly contemplated actually doing something with them someday. He figured having a Pulitzer Prize might, one day, merit memoirs of some form. Regardless, he'd have a lifetime of memories to draw back on someday. For his children, and grandchildren. For CJ. He wanted so much to share this with her. He hoped one day he would. For now, he wrote long dialogue, sometimes well into the night. Moleskine notebooks filled with prose. His loopy irregular scrawl. His emails to her grew steadily longer as the time he was away grew longer. Late into the night he'd write. Trying to put into words what he felt for her. Failing.

_  
I need to know you, need to feel my arms around you  
feel my arms around you, like a sea around a shore  
and -- each night and day I pray, in hope  
that I might find you, in hope that I might  
find you, because heart's can do no more  
It always ends up to one thing honey, still I kneel upon the floor _

They'd been flirting with each other for years. The occasional kiss. Dinner here and there. Chinese over votes. Gail. He'd been in love with her for almost as long. Those soulful green eyes. Her beautiful smile. Sharp wit. Sparkling intelligence. He'd never been so challenged by a woman. He'd never wanted anyone so badly. He'd never left the country to stop thinking about someone before. He didn't buy her line that the Press Secretary couldn't date a Senior Reporter. He grudgingly respected it but didn't like it. He'd been pissed when she'd barely blinked when he'd been offered an editorship in New York. His hope depended on his return to Washington. The Bartlett administration was set send to end this term. And quietly he hoped that once CJ was out of the White House, they might have a future.

_How can I tell you that I love you, I love you  
but I can't think of right words to say  
I long to tell you that I'm always thinking of you  
_

Towards the end of his sabbatical. Danny was faced with several choices. Where to go? Who to see? CJ was the first person he called. He'd come to rely on her judgement. It had been two long years since he'd seen her. Two long years of emails, the occasional postcard, phone calls here and there. Two years of thinking of her constantly. He found himself, on his last night, sat amongst his belonging packed away, finishing off his whiskey wondering what the future held for him, for them. Two trunks remain unlocked. Trunks seemed old-fashioned, but there was something about their Hemingway air which amused him, and so they'd come with him. One trunk held a stash of battered notebooks, filled with his scrawling from over the last two years. The sights, smell and experiences of two years around Africa and Europe. He hoped she'd read them someday. They were written as much for her as they were for him. She sounded so tired when he'd rung her. The weariness filtered through her voice, through the distance. Eight years of fourteen hour days, six days a week, with an extra three hours work in the evenings. Despite the dress allowance, he wasn't sure CJ thought this was worth it any longer. But the decision was out of her hands. He wanted to see her so badly. He'd a picture of her in his head but hadn't focused upon the original for too long.

_I'm always thinking of you....  
It always ends up to one thing honey  
and I can't think of the right words to say_

CJ glanced at the clock. She knew his plane was due to land round about now. He'd be back in DC sometime soon. She idly wondered how long it would be before she came into her office to find those unruly red curls waiting for her. How long it would be before Gail's bowl underwent some redecoration when she wasn't looking. It had been two long years since she'd laid eyes on him. She wondered how much he'd changed. She hoped he hadn't. His cheeky smile. His impulsiveness. She'd never forgotten the way he'd kissed her that Christmas. And she rather hoped, though she'd never admit it that when he came back, he'd do it again. Perhaps then she might have the chance to tell him how she felt.


End file.
